A Lesson In Violence With Young Mozenrath
by bestia
Summary: A Lesson With Moze: Needless Violence is stupid. Now needful violence... Well that's another matter, isn't it? Warning: Language and a tiny bit of Gore.


Mozenrath was in a high temper sort of mood. He stormed angrily out of the black hued palace of Morbia, not bothering to wait for the servants at the door to open it for him, with their scrambling panic (his rages were legendary, at least for a twelve year old). He threw the doors open with one half physicality, one half brewing magic. The stunned servants wisely stepped out of the way, as did every guard down the long steps to the palace common.

Mozenrath's little blue cape swirled 'round him in the wind of outside. He could not stand to be inside any longer, definitely not with those...**_tutors. _**When he became ruler of Morbia, as he eventually would, act one would definitely be in the business of getting his revenge on the annoying, doddering old men. First there would be a dip in hot oil, upside down, definitely. Next, a nice rambunctious roll in multiple fire ant nests, and not just any fire ants, but the ones he himself experimented on. A wicked little smirk tilted the corners of his lips. Yes, the ones with the 2-foot pinchers and ray guns attached to their little heads.

Cruel, maybe, but Mozenrath could hardly be the one to blame. He was, after all, the only son of Mirage the catling, whose idea of motherly affection was taking a healthy swipe at her son with her poisonous green claws. Besides, they were asking for it, in all fairness.

They were supposed to be teaching Mozenrath new types of magic, utilization of body magic, or manipulation of human flesh. Naturally, they were a little less than enthusiastic about the idea of giving an already..._spirited_ child ammo for his temper tantrums, but orders were orders, though they definitely didn't like the smile on Mirage's black furred face when she gave them. Problem number one was that today just happened to be one of those numerous days when the abundant magic inside Mozenrath stubbornly refused to come out. Not only did it escalate the young prince's frustration, but it also but pressure on the tutors. They couldn't just let Mozenrath not _get _the lesson. Mirage would most assuredly blame them. So they persisted, and one of the tutor's, an already shaky, timid man, pointed out that maybe if Mozenrath tried a _little harder..._

The next resulting twenty minutes passed like a chaotic blur for Mozenrath's tutors, in which five vases, three paintings, and quite an expensive Persian rug was decimated. The men themselves were confused as how they ended up alive, but contributed it to quick thinking and convenient hiding places.

More infuriating still for the young prince of Morbia was that his magic returned just then when he reached the door, but it was too late to prove it. He sighed dramatically through his teeth, and rolled his eyes. He stopped just 8 steps above the road that led to the town, and considered for a moment just exactly what he wanted to do now that he gave himself the afternoon off from studies. He got his inspiration when he spied a group of young boys, most assuredly around his age at least, grouped around the gardens at the bottom of the same road down from the palace. _They _seemed to be having some good sport, at least.

Lifting his chin, he strode down purposefully the last steps and started making his way down the road, meticulously polished black boots from the finest leather clacking on the cobblestones along the way. He paused as he was almost upon them, and looked to the left at a large puddle at his feet. In it, he saw his reflection and inwardly preened. Fine, indigo robes with traces of delicate gold threading, gray blue silk neck wrap, anal-retentively washed black hair, and clean as a whistle. Not a trace of his age to be seen. Perfect.

Mozenrath resented childhood.

It nicked his pride a bit that he was nearly on top of the boys and they didn't even bother to acknowledge him. They were dirty ragamuffins, every one of them. Their clothes were unconcernedly torn and mussed, and they were barefoot. There were three of them, a small, brutish looking boy who, to Mozenrath, looked to be about eleven with brown hair, eyes and skin. There was a tall, gangly youth, fiercely red headed and freckled, his hands and feet too big for his body, and his green eyes too small for his head. And last, there was an average looking blonde haired boy. Mozenrath was startled to recognize him as the main manservant's son; Richard was it? He had to be of a higher cut than the rest. He was silent, while the other two snickered and guffawed over something the tallest one had in his hands.

Well, Mozenrath wasn't about to let himself be ignored or left out of the fun. He cleared his throat importantly. The boy's looked up, as if annoyed at being interrupted.

"Who are you?" the brown little boy asked rudely.

Mozenrath was taken aback; who dared to talk to him in such a way? But he quickly recovered, a trait he prided himself on, and smoothed his surprise over with a haughty question of his own.

"Shouldn't it be obvious?"

It fell a little flat when the tall red head looked him up and down, as if taking him in, then snorted derisively.

"Yeah Rakar, don't you recognize the first wave of the midget parade?"

"Midget?" Mozenrath exclaimed, stricken. He knew he was short and a bit underdeveloped for his age, but midget indeed! Mirage had assured him his height was only a precursor to a growth spurt he'd experience later in life. He grew red around the ears as the shorter, darker boy, apparently Rakar by name, laughed with the unidentified red head, unnecessarily loud at their own little joke.

He bristled.

"I'll have you know I'm most likely your same damn age-"

"Yeah Yeah kid, buzz off, we're busy."

Mozenrath was ignored as they spread out to search among the bushes. Richard was religiously avoiding eye contact with Mozenrath, but Mozenrath's interest had moved. He noticed that when the still unnamed boy had spoke he let something drop from his hands, a little pale blue something. Mozenrath knelt and looked, shocked to discover it was a weakly flopping, one winged butterfly. He gathered it in his hands and looked up accusingly.

"Who did this?"

He walked right in among them, circled by the thick hedges. Richard answered quietly, facing on of the hedges and searching busily.

"Deron there did that one."

"What's the matter kid?" Deron asked mockingly, Mozenrath once again having his interest, "Got a problem with it?" He towered over Mozenrath, and there was an ugly smile his face, Mozenrath unabashedly hypothesizing Deron's mother didn't hesitate to drink while Deron was in the womb.

His lips pursed coldly.

"Why?" he asked simply.

Deron shrugged. "Cause it's fun." He turned away, and grabbed a wildly flapping yellow butterfly Rakar had caught from his hands.

"Hey! I was going to play with that one!" Rakar protested.

"You see," he emphasized, pinching the struggling insect's black middle in-between his fingers, " it's funny because they are just stupid little bugs. Can't even protect themselves. Stupid." As if to illustrate his point, he tore the wing of the large yellow butterfly, letting it fall to the ground.

"Stop it." Mozenrath ordered immediately.

"Why kid, you some kind of little girl? What's the matter, in love with butterflies?"

Rakar and Deron roared in laughter as Deron shoved Mozenrath hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back from the force of it. Deron sneered and ripped the dying butterfly's other wing off, letting the now doomed black carcass fall to the dirt.

"Stop it! I mean it!" Mozenrath repeated heatedly, stamping his foot.

"Aww look, I think girly boy here is going to cry!" Rakar jeered over Deron's shoulder. He stepped forward and crushed the butterfly's mangled body under his heel. Mozenrath felt the blue butterfly's body in his hand stop moving weakly. He looked down and realized it was dead. He stepped to the side and gently placed it on a leaf, then walked up with purpose to Deron, small fist clenching. Hey, if it worked for his mom...

He reeled back and smashed his fist into Deron's unsuspecting face. It was a very gratifying action.

"Shit!" Deron cursed unattractively, holding his nose. Instantly, he and Rakar were on him. He fought, naturally, no good catling goes down without a fight, but he was one to their two, and soon found himself on his back in the dirt, Rakar holding his arms down, and Deron's knees pressing his thighs. He was stuck, and panted as he looked up, watching with immense satisfaction as a trickle of blood made its way down from Deron's oversized nose.

Deron was not happy, naturally. His knuckles cracked with the effort of clenching his own fists, and looked down at Mozenrath in scorn.

"You got a death wish, kid?"

Richard had kept his peace till now, keeping to his nervous silence, but he spoke up with obvious fear, hovering over them.

"Come on Deron, lay off. This kid is Prince Mozenrath!"

"Like hell he is." Deron spat with disbelief.

But Mozenrath wasn't listening. He was more attentive to the warm, humming feeling inside of him, the steady pulse of magic waiting to get out and make itself known. Now was its time. Mozenrath felt himself grin as the tutor's lessons about body manipulation ran through his head in clear memory.

Rakar noticed, and looked down with an eyebrow raised.

"Look, I think he's cracked!"

Mozenrath slipped his hand out from under Rakar's slacking hold, and reached up, quick as a flash, and gripped with two of his fingers the bridge of Deron's nose.

"What the hell?.. Aggh!"

Magic crackled about Mozenrath, and a spell rolled off his tongue. The other boys backed up, intimidated, and Mozenrath sat up, still gripping Deron. The boy made his eyes go cross-eyed as he stared in horror at what effect Mozenrath's magic was having. The veins running down his nose bulged and pulsed unpleasantly, uncomfortably as they continued to grow to an overly large size, standing up from the surrounding skin.

He looked at Mozenrath in silent fear, fright seizing his throat. Mozenrath smirked.

Deron howled as his nose exploded in a ball of blood and bone and clutched his hands to his face. Mozenrath let him fall to the ground as Richard and Rakar rushed to his side. He stood, dusting off his robes and headed back up towards the palace.

You see, Mozenrath stolidly believed unnecessary violence was foul and ignorant. But needful violence, well that was another thing entirely...


End file.
